To Sleep With Evil Read online

  In a deep voice, the Vistana said, "Arturi can be off-putting."

  She wondered how he knew.

  "Nonetheless, he spoke the truth/I continued the man. His voice was oddly soothing. "Wait here as he told you. Donskoy's men will arrive soon. And there is no safety in the cover of these woods."

  Again Marguerite wondered at the extent of his knowledge. He spoke as if they knew one another, as if they had passed the entire journey chatting together in some cozy conveyance. Prudence dictated she remain on guard, but she felt the tension easing from her body.

  The Vistana rode to the fork and reined his horse to a stop. The beast pawed impatiently at the ground. Though full morning still lay an hour beneath the hori­zon, false dawn was approaching; the sky had light­ened to pale gray, against which the rider and his horse stood in dark silhouette. The gypsy turned toward Marguerite, tipped his hat again, then guided his horse toward the left fork. A roiling cloud of mist suddenly drifted across the road, engulfing his form. When it passed, the man had vanished.

  Marguerite sat on the oblong box Arturi had placed beside her bridal chest, suddenly more alone than before. Waiting seemed her only option. She pulled her cloak near. The worst dangers lay behind in Darkon, she told herself, with the fiends of Lord Aza-lin's secret police, those inhuman monsters who had ravaged her sheltered and simple life. Ahead lay the promise of sanctuary, perhaps even affection.

  She drew her knees up onto the long black box and rested her head upon her arms, her cloak flowing around her like a tent. Her gaze remained fixed upon the road ahead. A trio of little gray-and-white warblers flitted past; they were vista-chiri, the bright-songed followers of gypsy caravans. Except for the birds and the lightening sky, the scene remained unchanged.

  Marguerite tried to imagine the men who would come to retrieve her. Perhaps they would steer a car­riage in which Donskoy himself rode. She wondered what he would think of her, whether she would please him. So much depended on it. Certainly others had found her desirable. But if Donskoy knew of one suitor in particular, he might be repulsed.

  Creaking wood and jangling chains disrupted her thoughts. She started and rose.

  A narrow old wagon drawn by a tired gray horse was approaching from the right side of the fork. The cart groaned and clattered, protesting the kettle-holes and jagged rocks beneath its wheels. On the bench huddled two men. The driver was tall, narrow, and rigid, like a wooden pole in a slim dark coat. He looked even taller because of his peculiar fur hat, which resembled a black bee hive built upon his head. Despite the uneven ride, he swayed only slightly.

  His companion, in contrast, jiggled like half-jelled lard. He sat barely as high as the tall man's shoulder, yet his haunches eclipsed nearly two-thirds of the bench. With his ridiculous grin, he looked like a squat happy toad swaddled in tattered brown woolens. His elbows bowed outward and bounced with the rest of him, creating the impression that he had just told a joke and was nudging his companion to emphasize the punch line.

  The wagon drew to a halt. The tall man tipped his head toward Marguerite. Like his body, his pasty face was long and narrow, with damp gray eyes set beneath a pale silvery brow. A fringe of white hair dangled beneath the rim of his hat.

  The driver said, "Marguerite de Boche, I presume?" He lifted one eyebrow to punctuate the question. The rest of his face remained strangely immobile.

  Marguerite nodded, but could not find the words to speak.

  "Allow me to introduce ourselves. I am Ekhart, and this is Ljubo." Ekhart waved at his oafish companion. "We are humble servants to Lord Donskoy. It is our pleasure to escort you to your new home."

  Ekhart's words were practiced and polite, but he barely moved his jaw as he spoke; his mouth looked like a long incision drawn horizontally across his face. The gash was rimmed by a pair of thin, bumpy tjps— grayish pink and slightly raised, like scar tissue. At the corners, they were so dry and scabrous that to smile might cause them to bleed.

  Ljubo grinned ridiculously, exposing his broken and stained teeth. "So very nice to meet you." He gave quick little nods as he spoke, a silent and staccato yes-yes-yes to underscore his words. Even after the nodding stopped, his sagging red cheeks continued to jiggle.

  "The feeling is mutual,11 replied Marguerite. "For a time, I was afraid no one would come."

  "Yes," said Ekhart. He paused, as if annoyed by the burden of conversation. "It can be lonely out here in the wild."

  Ljubo oozed off the seat and plopped his feet onto the road. His legs all but disappeared as they bowed to absorb the shock of his weight.

  He waddled toward the cargo. Ekhart watched care­fully but made no move to assist.

  Marguerite watched too. Ljubo's hands were stubby and round. He wore the tattered remnants of woolen gloves, and his fingertips, left bare, were dirty and rough.

  Despite his almost crippled appearance, the squat man readily hoisted Marguerite's bridal chest into the back of the cart. But he struggled with the heavy oblong box, succeeding only in lifting one end until it stood upright like a sarcophagus. Ekhart grunted, then reluctantly climbed off the wagon to help. Beside Ljubo's doughy shape, the tall man looked brittle.

  They secured the box, then Ljubo hefted himself into the wagon alongside the cargo, leaving the bench free for Marguerite. He grinned again and gestured toward the seat.

  Ekhart extended his hand. "Milady," he said curtly. He helped Marguerite onto the perch, then settled beside her and reclaimed the reins. The horse turned the wagon through the neck of the fork, and they jour­neyed in the direction from which the men had come.

  Morning was fuil upon them, though no sun was visible- The air was still damp, and the sky glowed faintly with a cold white light Black spruce and heav­ily fringed pines towered beside the road as far as the eye could see, leaning toward one another as if ready to fall. Some had already toppled against their neigh­bors, with tangled roots tilting out of the soil like bod­ies unearthed from the grave.

  "Is it far?" Marguerite asked.

  "Half an hour, maybe less," Ekhart replied.

  Marguerite nodded and smiled faintly. She was glad the journey was near an end. Though part of her feared the future, she did not regret her decision to leave Darkon. She could not. There had been no choice.

  "You're lucky," said Ljubo behind her. Ekhart frowned and glanced over his shoulder, but Ljubo ignored the look.

  "Oh?" said Marguerite. She wondered if Ljubo had somehow been reading her thoughts.

  "Often this road can't be traveled at all. The castle gets sealed in for months at a time, what with the ice or mud or fallen timber. Then, when we can travel out again, we've all but forgotten the paths. Some of them—"

  "Ljubo," Ekhart interrupted. "Do not prattle on like a fool/

  Marguerite turned to smile at the man behind her. "Oh, but I'm interested."

  "Of course, milady," Ekhart replied evenly, "but it should be your lord's pleasure to acquaint you with your new home. He would be displeased—rather, quite disappointed—if we stole that opportunity by speaking out of turn."

  Ljubo fell silent and stared at his nails, which were caked with reddish brown soil. He began to pick at the frayed dry skin around the nail bed, showering his lap with tiny flakes. He appeared to be disintegrating. Marguerite returned her gaze to the road.

  For a moment, she remained silent as well. But her curiosity was piqued. Determined to learn something about her new home, she tried another tack. "Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me about yourselves, then," she said. "Are you native to these parts?"

  "No, miss," Ekhart replied. He offered nothing more.

  Marguerite was not daunted. "And how is that you serve Lord Donskoy?"

  "We retrieve things," chimed Ljubo, "like—"

  "Such as yourself, Mistress de Boche," interrupted Ekhart. "But 'retrieve' is not the best description of our tasks. Ljubo does not choose his words wisely. [ am the stable master, and Ljubo is my assistant. Therefore we handle matters of conveyance." H
e paused. A little muscle in his cheek pulsed, "Truly, it would be best if you reserved your questions for Lord Donskoy."

  Marguerite did not wish to vex him, so she remained silent.

  The wagon journeyed on. Soon the dense evergreens gave way to a patch of beech and aspen. The forest retreated from the road, leaving marshy ground in its wake. Dead grass and fetid brown pools spread on either side, dotted with brambles and rocky outcrop-pings. The tangled shrubs had refused to iet go of their withered leaves; they shivered as the wagon passed.

  Marguerite inhaled deeply. The cool air stung her nostrils, filling them with the nauseating smell of rotting flora. The road turned sharply, and her stomach twisted along with it. Bile rose suddenly in her throat, and she choked it back. The wagon plunged once more into the forest. A black, icy stream flowed along one side. Then the road began to rise, and they passed over a little stone bridge that crossed the stream.

  Ljubo nudged Marguerite. "Look there," he said.

  Without warning, the keep confronted them. The massive block of gray stone thrust up from a low rise, looming nearly twice as high as its width. A low cur­tain wall extended before it, crumbled and gaping, with only the skeleton of a gate remaining. A higher wall extended from the left side of the keep, creating a court. To the right, the ground gave way to a steep ravine. Round towers jutted from the corners of the castle and flanked the entrance. Decay had ravaged the entire structure. Dark red-brown lichens now spread their lacy fingers across the stonework and hung from the crenetation like sloughing skin. Tall, narrow windows pierced the upper half of the keep. Where they were barred, the ironwork had rusted and wept, creating long, dark streaks on the facade below.

  "Impressive, huh?" said Ljubo.

  Marguerite felt a fresh wave of nausea. She held her breath for a moment, then replied quietly, "Indeed." The keep was immense and chilling. Like Ljubo, it appeared to be falling apart. She hoped the lord of the manor was in better repair. Then she chided herself. Besides curiosity, pessimism was her worst trait—and it was one she had intended to leave behind in Darkon.

  The wagon drew to a halt before the main entrance. Ekhart helped Marguerite down from her perch.

  "I must assist Ljubo briefly in the stable," he said stiffly. "Then I will return to escort you. Please wait here."

  "What about my bridal chest?" asked Marguerite tensely. Suddenly she felt a pang, as if parting with her possessions—the last vestiges of her former life— meant losing more than cloth and a few mementos.

  "Ljubo will bring the chest to your chamber," Ekhart replied. Then he climbed back onto the wagon seat and guided the horse toward the doors that breached the wall flanking the castle. The doors opened. Ljubo gave a quick little wave from the back. Then the wagon disappeared through the gap.

  Once again, Marguerite stood waiting, deposited like a sack of goods. She shivered. Somewhere just along the edge of her vision, she saw a dark shape moving. She looked toward the wood, but discerned only the swaying of a branch. The shape flickered again, disappearing at the corner of the castle. Was it, she wondered, a man perhaps? Someone observing her arrival?

  Marguerite shook her head. "Your imagination," she said aloud. It was a phantom planted in her mind by the unsavory Vistana, who took pleasure in creating unease.

  Marguerite gazed at the long stair before her. It seemed to stretch and retract subtly, beckoning. She was cold and weary, and simply standing made her more so. Who was this Ekhart to detain her? Wasn't he, indeed, soon to be at her command? Of course, he might be more than just a servant to Donskoy—his clothes and his manners suggested as much. She decided to climb the stair anyway, but to wait for Ekhart at the top.

  The steps were narrow and awkwardly spaced. Each had been worn smooth by the not-so-gentle caress of countless feet. Marguerite tried to picture those who had passed before—loyal soldiers, lords and ladies, a swarm of hunched and hairy monstrosities prepared to batter the door above. For some reason it was easier to imagine a departure; in her mind's eye, men tumbled from the maw above like broken teeth. She grew dizzy with each step she took. She began to count them— thirty, thirty-one—but soon lost track.

  When she reached the top, Marguerite fe!t disori­ented and weak. Perspiration had glued fine wisps of reddish-gold hair to her forehead. Ahead lay the door, at the end of the short and gloomy passage embraced by the flanking towers. The door's wooden planks stretched to twice her height and were bound in rusty iron, The surrounding stones had been carved into an ornate relief of twisting vines; clawed, grasping hands; and ghoulish faces with gaping sharp-toothed maws. The faces were pitted and half the fingers had fallen away, as if claimed by leprosy.

  Marguerite stepped forward, hesitantly. The doors were parted slightly, with the right side leaning inward. A thin, dark shadow bled between them. Without thinking, Marguerite called out "Hail," then added, "Is anyone there?" The voice did not seem like her own.

  The doors parted farther, groaning on their hinges like a wounded warrior stirring on a field of dead. A musty breeze caressed Marguerite's face. Suddenly her head felt even lighter, her footing unsure. She swayed backward.

  A stiff hand gripped her elbow. It was Ekhart She had failed to notice his ascent.

  "You were to wait," he said sharply. His fingers bit into her skin, and she turned to look at him in pain.

  He eased his grip. Apologetically, he added, "Excuse my impertinence, miss. But it is not for my sake alone that I ask your cooperation—I am carrying out Lord Donskoy's instructions. Please heed what I say. I am to escort you."

  "I'm sorry," she replied. "I was growing so cold and tired. I was afraid if I stood still too long I might not be able to move again."

  He brushed past her and pulled the door open another foot. "You may come in now," he said evenly, then passed through.

  Marguerite did as she was told, slipping between the doors into the cavernous room beyond. It was dark and dank. Marguerite imagined she could hear the sound of running water. She began to step forward.

  "Not that way," said Ekhart. "Never that way. You must turn, and rise again."

  "What lies that way?" asked Marguerite.

  "An impatient fool's demise," Ekhart replied dryly. He was standing in an open doorway to the left. A nar­row staircase curved upward behind him. "Just a few yards across from the door, a pit plunges deep into the ground. It is a defensive structure, designed by whoever constructed this keep. Invading hordes were expected to rush straight on and plummet to their deaths. To follow suit would be ... suicidal. And most unfortunate for one so young."

  "Thank you for the warning," said Marguerite quietly.

  The wall behind Ekhart was lit by a torch; it gut­tered En the breeze. When he was sure she was follow­ing, he turned and ascended the stair.

  The passage led to a large, torch-lit foyer that was almost completely barren. The dark stone floor had ^een strewn with herbs. Their scent was strange and exotic—a mixture of deep, grassy notes and a sweet, earthy smell that Marguerite could not identify. They crunched beneath her suede boots.

  Somewhere to right, Marguerite could hear a man and a woman speaking. The woman laughed. Mar­guerite paused to listen further.

  Ekhart clucked his tongue. "This way, Miss de Boche," he said. "I will show you to your chamber."

  "My chamber?" asked Marguerite. "Does Lord Donskoy know I'm here?"

  Ekhart stretched the dry skin at the corners of his mouth into something resembling a smile. "Lord Don-skoy will receive you this afternoon, in the meantime, I would suggest you take this opportunity to refresh yourself. Surely you would like to make a good impression. Perhaps you should nap. I mean no insult, of course, but the journey has left you looking rather worn and tired."

  Reluctantly, she nodded. She was, indeed, exhausted. The sickly sweet smell of the herbs had a dizzying effect. She followed him to the next level, growing wearier with each step, It was as if the whole castle were a soporific drug.

  They traveled down a
wide, dimly lit hall. In her growing fatigue, Marguerite stumbled, and Ekhart turned to catch her arm.

  "You see?" he said. "You are too tired to meet any­one just yet."

  They turned, passing several doors, and climbed another three steps. With each one, Marguerite seemed to grow weaker, until she could barely stand. Finally, Ekhart paused before an arched door, insert­ing a key.

  As the door creaked open to reveal the dark cham­ber beyond, the last of Marguerite's strength drained away. She swooned. Ekhart's bony fingers clutched her arms, and a whirlpool of blackness closed in. His rasping voice swirled past her on an inky wave: "Weak. Like the last little bitch."

  Then Marguerite heard, and felt, nothing more.

  TWO

  When Marguerite awoke, she was nestled in the pit of a large, soft bed enclosed by a cocoon of wine-red draperies. Soaring dark posts and a massive wooden frame held the curtains and the canopy aloft. Beyond the softly wavering walls, she heard the crackling of a fire. A breeze toyed with a breach in the cloth at the foot of the bed, creating a tall, thin line of flickering gold light. A heavy blanket made of gray rabbit pelts lay before the glowing fissure. Upon the pelts lay a lily white robe trimmed in beige lace. Marguerite smiled— the robe was a gift, no doubt, from her husband-to-be. The castle might be crumbling around them, but he still had an eye for finery and a penchant, perhaps, for gestures of affection.

  Someone was shuffling across the wood floor in the room beyond. Marguerite crawled forward to probe the narrow gap between the curtains, gentling parting the cloth. A maid, perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old, was placing a kettle before the hearth, where a fire blazed, She looked frail and thin, her body all hard lines and angles; Marguerite could see the girl's skele­ton poking against her simple linen tunic and long brown overskirt. Her brownish blond hair was bound in a thin plait that hung down her back like a rat's tail, emerging from beneath a little brown linen cap.

  Marguerite reached for the white robe and pulled it around her, covering her nakedness. She imagined Ekhart's cold, stiff fingers undoing her traveling clothes, brushing against her bare skin, but she shook the notion from her head. Certainly this girl or another maid-servant had undressed her. A haunting phrase drifted just beyond the edge of her memory, some­thing Ekhart had said as they entered the room. It hovered, teasingly, then was gone. Marguerite thought perhaps she had dreamed it. She turned her attention to the girl.